


Metal Bars

by Jaetion



Series: Citadel City Serenade [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gangs, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Swearing, Vignette, War Boy Culture, War Boys Showing Affection, my headcanon for slit and his scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:24:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaetion/pseuds/Jaetion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up in the War Boy gang takes a lot. Slit and Nux are young, but War Boys have to pick up fast or risk the consequences. Modern-setting AU. Can be read as a stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metal Bars

**Author's Note:**

> An exploration of Slit and Nux - lives and relationship and the start of it all.

“You should thank me - Now you match your name.”

When it’s all over, the first one to find Slit is Morsov - and the mediocre shithead turns on his heel and runs off to snitch, so Slit has to staunch all the bleeding himself, and snot, and tears, and all the other fluids, with his clothes because there’s nothing else in the tiny room that he can use - and then Morsov comes back with Ace in tow. By then Slit’s pants are too soaked to be much use, but he won’t let Ace take them. He snarls and spits and fights the two off the best he can but Ace is taller and weighs more, and with the bastard Morsov at Ace’s side, they double-team him until Slit bleeds himself into exhaustion. But it still takes two of them, Slit thinks before he finally passes out, two of them and it feels like there’s only half of him now, like maybe Dunnage took some part when he cut Slit up.

He gets stitches and that whole thing is almost as bad as what Dunnage did, so when Slit accidentally pulls them out, he doesn’t go back for another round. The slash across his right cheek gets puffy and red and drippy, and it doesn’t take long for him to learn how to move his jaw so that he can tear open the wound again whenever he wants. So it heals like shit - in some ways, looks like it doesn’t heal at all. But that’s what he wants. He has to prove himself, more than ever, so no one will dare to try it a second time. Stamping through the streets of their territory, all Slit needs to do is grin at someone and even the older Boys take a step back.

The Pits’ warehouses are almost a city in and of themselves. They spread out along the banks of the river, War Boys on the streets, on the piers, even in the projects. Every day they claim more of the city. Now that night is falling for real, lights go on inside and out, and voices spill out of the windows along with the neon glow. He slides around parked cars, checking himself out in a side-view mirror. Left side of his face look good. Right side... He can tell his jaw is getting broader, more square, and he can’t wait until his body finally matches what he wants to be. Taller. Slit straightens and stretches his heads above his head. He needs to be taller. It’s almost a panic - but not really, because Slit’s sure of it and he doesn’t get all shitty worried like Morsov. 

When he passes some Boys, he keeps his back ramrod straight. They call him over and he gets a half-empty bottle of beer, leaning on their truck and holding onto the bottle so his fingers don’t go up to touch at his cheek. They hover over him as they eye it, then one of them does touch it and Slit has to lock his knees from flinching away. He grins and laughs along with them when they joke about Ace, but then their phones go off - a call, and even though they clap him on the shoulders, he doesn’t get an invite. 

The exclusion disappoints him so bad that he can taste it - it tastes like old, sour blood and warm beer. Slit watches the taillights fade down the street and then throws the empty bottle against the brick wall of one of the Pit’s buildings. It shatters with a sound that echos through the night, loud and sharp, and that makes him feel a little better, being able to fuck up something, even if it’s only a bottle. Mixed in with some more empty bottles along the curb are cans of spray paint - When he whistles with delight, it sounds more like a hiss. Quick look around to make sure no one else has claimed them, and then Slit is stuffing them into his pockets and sprinting away down the street, into an alley, around the back to where there are less Boys and more wallspace. 

Nothing’s untouched - Boys have owned the Pits for so long that almost every inch of it is tagged - but Slit knows where the older stuff lies, done by Boys dead long enough that no crew will come after him if he covers it with his own tags. Most of them stay on the streets anyway, except for him - Slit ventures up higher than practically everyone else. More proof of his shine. One of the warehouses has the remnants of a fire escape, broken for-fucking-ever, but enough of it hangs from the side of the warehouse that Slit can climb it. With the cans of spray paint filling the pockets of his leather jacket, he moves quietly through the back streets until he gets to the fire escape. Standing underneath it, he stretches his arm up to judge if he can reach any higher. 

Maybe he’s getting even taller.

Before he can jump up and grab the lowest rung, there are echoing footsteps deeper down the alley. Running footsteps and then some shouting. Slit stashes the cans of spray paint behind a dumpster as he goes to investigate - If something’s going down, he needs to be a part of it. Another Boy, Butchey, who is barely taller than him, suddenly appears out of another alley and they glance at each other before Butchey shoulder-checks him, but Slit stays on his feet and growls back. Doesn’t even really slow him down; Slit’s determined to follow the noises and fuck Butchey.

“Piss off, Slit, you ugly fuck!” he yells over his shoulder. “Told you before you ain’t our crew!”

But it’s not a rally, not lost Buzzards, not Joe. A few Boys are by some cars, pummeling at something between them. Butchey shoves past Slit again when Slit slows. They’re part of the same crew: piece of shit Butchey, Tag the street trash, a third one with his back to Slit, and then Ave, who Slit hated even before he knew that Ave rolled over for Dunnage. Whoever’s in the center isn’t even in blacks - just filthy jeans and a bright t-shirt.

“Unless you wanna part of the initiation too,” Butchey calls back with a snicker. “Think you can take us all on by yourself?”

Yeah.

Butchey goes down after a single punch.

He grabs one by the shoulder and heaves him backward. Then there’s only two: he doesn’t even really need to aim when he smashes his fist into Tag’s face because the fucker is so small and squirrely - just hits him, pulls back, hits him again, cracks his nose, his eye, maybe a couple of teeth, then tosses him aside. Then there’s only one: Slit catches Ave’s wrist, bends it back, brings his knee up into Ave’s stomach, his elbow down onto Ave’s head, and then shoves him away. The kid on the bottom of it is streaming with blood, red everywhere except for a pair of blue eyes that are so huge that Slit can’t help but stare into them. 

“Get up,” he orders the kid, who scrambles to his feet and moves close. Slit kicks Ave, hoping to leave a mark that the asshole won’t be able to hide. Anyone who sees it will know what happened - that someone took down Ave and his crew - and anyone who asks will know that Slit did it. All by himself. Makes Slit dizzy almost, everything pumping so hard that he feels like a v8 engine. Each heart beat makes his scar throb, but he likes that too. 

Ave’s three Boys come at Slit and for a second - long second, hard second, burning second - Slit can’t think of anything but Dunnage and his crew and the way they covered him together. But he’s learned since then - from then - and Slit recovers after the first hit and strikes back. Fist in his ribs gets caught, knee against his back is kicked away, but then there are nails in his cheek which shatters his concentration - Until out of the corner of his eye he sees the the kid yank Tag back. 

There’s chaos until Slit rights it all and tosses Tag and Butchey aside and the third - Slit doesn’t know him, which means that he’s new, which means that he probably is regretting shackling up with such a shit crew - scurries out of arm’s reach. Slit lets him haul Tag and Butchey back up to their feet, and they grab Ave drag him back until the shadows eat them up. Then it’s just Slit and the kid, who’s breathing wet and loud right at Slit’s elbow.

He grabs the kid’s stupid green t-shirt and pulls him in, and the kid’s big blue eyes get bigger and bluer. Slit can see the start of a nasty shiner forming under one of those eyes. He’s not as tall as Slit and thin as a pole - Not like Slit who’s already started filling out. His voice has gotten lower too, but he still has to work to keep it from cracking. He does that now, his voice in a steady growl, when he barks, “What the fuck did you think would happen, going down there with them?”

“I don’t know! Ave said I could join a crew maybe.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Slit drops the kid and turns away, shrugging his shoulders in his jacket. One of his arms hurts - only a little and he doesn’t show it.

But the kid doesn’t pick up on the fact that it’s over and he needs to fuck off.

“My name’s Nux,” the kid tells him, appearing at Slit’s side. There’s blood on his teeth but he’s still smiling. “Dunnage - you know him? - he says it’s because I’m a real tough nut to crack. Get it? He says that he’ll try but I told him I won’t.”

Dunnage. The name almost makes Slit freeze in place, but it’s only an almost - he keeps walking. “Stay away from him.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Because. Slit’s scar is suddenly burning, but the fire of it is better than that horrible wetness when Dunnage was done. His hands clench into fists and that hurts too, but it’s the sort of pain that Slit can manage, so it makes him feel a little better. “He’s a mediocre shithead, that’s why. And he’ll shred you as soon as look at you. You’re too soft - You won’t survive it.”

Nux’s smile fades. “It’s ok. I don’t really want to be part of his crew. But I am gonna be a War Boy! I’m real good at running and I know every car ever made in America, Europe, and Japan. And I’m learning China. Hey, did you know that the Chery’s chassis came from -”

The kid is still on his heels, close enough that he steps on the back of Slit’s boots. Slit growls and spins on him. “You’re so fucking soft, course Ave wanted to fuck you up. Don’t you know anything?”

“Yeah!” the kid insists, then shies back a bit. “No? I know lots of stuff!”

“You don’t know shit. If you did, you wouldn’t have gone down there with him. Weak fucking idiots get what they deserve.”

“I’m not weak. And I’m not… a fucking idiot.”

“Think you are,” Slit says and shoves at the kid’s shoulder.

Who almost folds at it, even though it was barely a push at all. The kid wraps his arms around his chest and grimaces down at his filthy, untied sneakers. He’s shaved his head but he must have done it himself because when he bends over, Slit can see a patch of dark fuzz. Ignoring him, Slit slides back through the alley toward his cans of spray paint and the fire escape. Images of his glory fill his mind, pushing out the kid and his squeaky little voice, and he starts to plan what he’ll paint. His boot on a skull. Maybe him on top of a pile of skulls. 

By the time he’s back where he started, Nux isn’t in his shadow anymore. Slit pauses, but doesn’t hear anything. A jump up and he catches the bottom rung and swings there for a moment until he can get his legs up, too, the cans of spray paint banging against his hip. The long black pants, the heavy leather jacket are some protection, but mostly they just cover shit up. Under the clothes he’d find all sorts of colors: the blue-purples of new bruises, the yellows of old ones, probably smears of red, too. Almost touches his face again at that thought. 

“Hey! Hey, where are you going?”

Nux is below him, hands cupped around his mouth as he broadcasts to the whole compound that he’s a moron. Slit rolls his eyes down toward the kid. 

“Where do you think I’m going, dickweed?”

"Can I come?"

“No. Fuck off.”

“You were really cool before, you know! Took down all those guys!”

Slit’s smug at that. “Course I was. I’m the best.”

“I helped.”

“A little.”

“Hey, I have a bag of chips. Want some?”

“Yeah! I mean, I guess.” Slit only offers his hand to shut the kid up. He has to hook his knees around a bar to reach down low enough for Nux to grab him, and the motion of it and then the effort of lifting make his arms shake with pain. It makes him snarl and snap at Nux, who hops out of the way so Slit’s fist can’t reach him. Slit climbs up first and Nux follows behind at a safe distance, but once they get on the roof, the kid finally quiets and Slit’s muscles stop aching quite so much.

They roam around the roof for a bit, Nux peering over the edge while Slit tries to focus on tagging, but after his first two skulls look more like piles of crap than anything else, he drops the cans and starts kicking them against an old chimney. Having Nux watch him so closely is unnerving, makes his stomach quease up like he’s been drinking too much. It’s the eyes, maybe. Slit glances at him, glances away, kicks the cans harder. When Nux offers him the small bag of chips, Slit grabs it and holds it above Nux’s head so the kid has the jump to try to reclaim it. Which he can’t - Slit’s too tall.

He drops the half-empty bag and Nux grabs it and hops away to stuff the rest of the chips in his mouth. There’s peace and quiet for approximately a minute while Nux eats and circles at a distance, but then he comes back to Slit, chattering away again.

“I’m real fast, you know. Not just at running - climbing too. Right? I know the streets here real good. Want me to show you? I can find any place in the city. You know what else? I can take a bike apart and put it back together faster than anyone else. Want to see?”

Slit huffs a laugh. “You’re real fucking annoying, you know that?”

“Am not!”

“Yeah, are too.”

“So can you drive?”

“Yeah,” Slit brags. “Course I can. Jacked my first car when I was your age.”

“Wow! What kind of car?”

“BMW E36.”

Nux’s eyes are even wider now. “Whoa. Which model? M3? That was super popular, you know. Even down here.”

“Course!” Slit says quickly, although he can’t really remember. Mostly he remembers the wind in his face as he floored it down the street. Car jerked and made a fuss every time he shifted, but once he got it into third, he was flying. Squealing around the other cars, yelling at people on the street, circling the Pits, everyone staring and talking.

Nux starts listing everything he knows about BMWs, starting from the engine and working out through the rest of the car. Slit tries to keep himself from looking impressed, but as the kid explains the differences between the models, Slit begins to nod along and try to remember it all himself. There are numbers and a ton of words that Slit doesn’t recognize, abbreviations and terms that maybe he might have heard in school before he dropped out.

“What’s your favorite car?” Nux asks suddenly and Slit stutters a bit as he tries to come up with the most impressive model

“Jaguar… XJS. No wait - Dodge Viper.” 

“Yeah! Vipers are awesome. Ever driven one?

“Joe has one. I’m gonna drive it when I’m a boss.”

“I thought Joe doesn’t let anyone touch his cars,” Nux says doubtfully. 

Which is true, but it’s still annoying that Nux’s caught him in a boast. “He’ll let me! What the fuck do you know, anyway? You’re not even a War Boy. You’re just some dumb little kid.”

“I’m gonna be a War Boy. Hey, you know what? You never told me your name.”

Slit’s lips pull up a little, and that really fucking hurts. “Slit,” he says at last. “And don’t fucking say anything about it or I’ll slit your shitty throat.”

He studies the scar, eyes not averting even when Slit growls. Slit expects him to ask, expects him to press, but instead Nux just nods. “That’s a cool name.”

“Course it is. Better than ‘Nux.’”

A scowl at that, but it makes Nux look younger instead of scary, like it’s more like a pout than anything even close to intimidating. “Why are you such a jerk?”

“Asshole. Call me an asshole or a bastard or something. Smeg-face shiteater. Come on.”

“Asshole.”

“Got to say it louder, like you mean it! Ratfucking buzzardshit. Rusted piece of street trash!” Gleefully he elbows Nux, once, then harder a second time, trying to provoke him. “Come on! Maybe you are just a mediocre gearhead. Maybe I should’ve let Ave shred you.”

One more shove collapses Nux and he hits the roof with a thud. Slit taunts him again, insults getting longer and louder until he’s shouting them. Finally Nux kicks away Slit’s leg, sneaker hard in Slit’s knee, and when Slit catches Nux’s shirt, the kid takes advantage of their proximity and punches him in the side. Scuffling and then falling over, scuffling some more. Slit gets on top, gets a knee into Nux’s stomach who gasps and writhes under him. 

He’s completely at Slit’s mercy. Slit can do whatever he wants - up on the roof, no one can hear them. No one knows they’re there. No one even really knows Nux exists. The green shirt bunches in Slit’s hands. Nux’s eyes are wide, but it’s too dark to see how blue they are.

As he releases his grip on Nux’s shirt and shifts his weight onto his haunches, the queasy feeling comes back, spinning around in his stomach and threatening his throat. All he wants to do is get away, be alone, and the feelings are so brightly intense that he almost can’t see for a second, and it’s in that second that Nux strikes. It’s not the hardest punch Slit’s ever received, but it’s right on his split cheek.

Slit jerks back and falls ass-first onto the roof. It hurts like hell again, burning away the nausea, and he can’t speak with his hand half-covering his face. Shitty fucking rusted mediocre reject, Slit thinks and turns away from him. He shouldn’t have followed Butchey to begin with. Everything was Butchey’s fault. Or Ave’s. Or Nux’s. There’s a noise, something soft and quickly aborted, but Slit notices and turns on Nux again.

“You crying?”

“No,” sniffles Nux.

Slit scoffs, a sharp scornful sound that makes Nux sniff even louder. His own nose is running and both eyes sting, but he knows how to hide that shit. “Good,” he says over the noise and lies down on his back, stretching out his legs and folding his arms behind his head. And that hurts a bit, but Slit tampers down the groan so it only escapes as a sigh. His eyes clear on their own without him having to rub at them. Above him the sky’s mostly black, still a little blue at the horizon where the sun is gone but its light still gets through the haze. “War Boys don’t cry. Sides, that was a good hit. I mean, I already won so it doesn’t count for anything. But it was still pretty good.”

Suddenly Nux is pressing against Slit’s side. He tenses, preparing for a punch or maybe a knife, but it’s just the kid’s face buried there against his ribs. Slit doesn’t relax - His whole body is frozen and it take a wheeze of effort to get air in his lungs so he can spit out, “What? What the fuck are you doing?”

“Wiping my nose on you, you jerk.”

Slit elbows him, but it’s just a little. Nux is warm against him. Which isn’t terrible. Nights are as cold as days are hot, and having a crew is protection against suffering in either. That’s what Slit tells himself as he snakes his arm around Nux. Some of the twisting in his stomach subsides, just a little. It wouldn’t be completely shit, having Nux in his crew. Better than Morsov, definitely. Everyone is better than Morsov. Slit needs someone fast, who doesn’t know when to give up, who doesn’t run off. “Told you,” he says, but it’s slow and without rancor. “Got to use the right words.”

“Smeg-faced asshole. Piss in your gas tank.” 

“Yeah! Now you’re learning.”

The city lights keep the sky from ever getting as black as their blacks. Especially in the Pits when all the Boys are around, their headlights shining sun-bright against the warehouses’ walls. There’s plenty of noise, too, though nothing that Slit can pick out as important. Usually he prowls around outside, just in case Joe shows up or one of the other crews need a fill-in, but Slit doesn’t move. Doesn’t move much, anyway, just a little to get Nux’s sharp knees from digging into his thigh.

“You watch me and I’ll show you how to be the shiniest War Boy,” Slit tells him and this time Nux doesn’t call him out on his boast.

“Only if you’re not a smeg-faced asshole,” Nux says back, but Slit can tell he’s smiling again.

Music blasting from someplace below makes both of them raise their heads. The vibration of it seems to rock the building, or maybe it’s the whole world shaking as the War Boys wake up, rev up, heat up. Slit’s on his feet first, running first, reaches the fire escape first. He turns around as he takes the first steps down the trembling staircase. But he doesn’t need to call - Nux is right behind him, just like a good partner should be.


End file.
